


Marked

by venndaai



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Consecuted Caleb Widogast, Essek Week (Critical Role), M/M, Reincarnation, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Trope Subversion, soulmates aren't decided by fate and Essek and Caleb aren't the ones connected by marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:21:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23715067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venndaai/pseuds/venndaai
Summary: There is a particular kind of magical tattooing process perfected by the Kryn. It is used on only two occasions: for the ritual of Consecution, and when two Consecuted vow to be with one another through all of their future lives.
Relationships: Astrid/Caleb Widogast (past), Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 11
Kudos: 147





	Marked

**Author's Note:**

> For Essek Week 2, for the prompt "soulmate AU"- I'm not entirely sure this qualifies, but it was definitely inspired by the prompt!

The ceremony of consecution is a deeply secret ritual. Its details are closely guarded. So Essek does not know exactly what to expect, when he is ushered into the vault beneath the Lucid Bastion, into the presence of the Rosohna Beacon. But he is not surprised when an ornate sigil is traced onto the skin over his heart, the pigment glowing in the low light. The existence of this magic is not a secret. It is used on only two occasions: for the ritual of Consecution, and when two Consecuted vow to be with one another through all of their future lives. 

The sigil of Consecution appears on a reborn soul’s skin only at amanuensis; but, by whatever whim of the Luxon, the private magic of a second mark stays with a soul through all of their lives from each birth to each death. 

Essek’s skin has always been unblemished. Even when he still had hope he might not be a new soul- even then he knew he was a lonely one. 

But perhaps. Perhaps one day he will paint a symbol of his own choosing onto someone else’s skin. Perhaps it will feel less like a trap than this ritual of handing one’s soul to a voiceless artifact. 

His mother finishes the final paintstroke. The Bright Queen’s voice rises in the final chant.

The glowing sigil flares and then goes out. 

Ah. So there’s some truth to the priests’ claims, after all. Faith is in some way required for Consecution. 

He clings to that scrap of knowledge gained, as Umavi Deirta Thelyss attempts to convince her Queen that her son is still worthy of holding office. 

  
  


Fifty years later and he is glad he is not Consecuted, glad his soul is unbound to the Dynasty, the Beacons or any throne or blind religion. There is a burning hollowness of guilt that lives in his chest these days, but in a way it is welcome. It is the only brand of loyalty he desires.

Caleb Widogast sleeps curled in on himself, protectively, but even so he is tall enough to make Essek’s luxurious bed seem small. He is so very strikingly human, with his height, the red hair that falls in waves over his face, the shadow of that enticingly exotic beard. His red-tinted skin is dotted with marks of damage from a life lived under the unoccluded sun. Essek does not know why damage should be so beautiful. 

There is a patch of skin on Caleb’s neck that is redder and shinier than the rest. Essek has noticed it before. He recognizes burn marks, from experimental mishaps and from his familiarity with the Bright Queen’s dungeons, but in no other place has he seen such an old scar from fire. He wonders now if it’s more sensitive. His fingers itch. 

Caleb’s breathing shifts. Essek watches him stir. His pale eyes are nearly colorless in the dark of Rosohna’s moonless night. He looks terribly lost, for a moment, and then his eyes focus on Essek, and his face softens into a smile. Essek feels like weeping, just over that. “Hallo,” Caleb says.

“Did I wake you?” Essek asks.

Caleb blinks. “No, I… sleep lightly.” He blinks again, and his smile widens. “Seeing something you like?”

“Perhaps,” Essek says, smiling back, but he cannot stop his gaze from darting to the burn mark and away. Caleb’s fingers rise slowly to his neck.

“As you know, I am very curious,” Essek says quickly, “sometimes about things that are none of my business.” 

“No,” Caleb says, slowly, “no, I- believe I would like to tell you.” 

“I would be honored,” is all that Essek can say. He arranges his own body on the bed next to Caleb’s. Face turned to his.

“I used to have a birthmark,” Caleb says, “right here,” and his long fingers brush the hair from his neck, and stroke the reddened patch of skin. “Very well-defined at first, I was told, though as I grew the skin stretched, of course. It was in the shape of a ten-petaled flower.”

There’s some comment on Essek’s tongue, he doesn’t really know what it’s going to be, some expression of curiosity or perhaps even a hint at the existence of Consecution marks, because he is addicted, these days, to dropping secrets at Caleb’s feet like gifts, like promises, _here are ways to destroy me-_ whatever it is, it vanishes as though Dispelled under Caleb’s next words.

“The funny thing is, there was another kid in the village who had the exact same birthmark as I did. Same shape, same placement.” He raises an eyebrow at Essek, inviting him to share mild amusement at the unpredictability of life. 

The bed, Essek knows, is still solidly beneath both of them. The sensation of free fall is only his mind struggling to recover from a sudden massive blow. 

Here is what he knows, all at once: 

He has been betrayed, more thoroughly than he ever expected, and it is no more than he deserves.

He is every inch the fool he knows his friends believe him to be.

Caleb has been betrayed far worse. 

He is going to lose Caleb. He has known this all along, of course, but it is only now that he sees the incredible multitude of ways in which he is going to lose him. Perhaps this, in the end, is his true punishment.

He is a _fool._

Caleb is still speaking. “We didn’t find out until later, when we were… when we were at school together,” he is saying, and Essek is certain he is not succeeding in disguising his current personal crisis, so for once he is grateful for the way Caleb often gets lost in his own words, all his focus bent on conveying his point. “We thought it was a sign. You know, fate. Being a teenager is silly like that, no?”

“I don’t really remember,” Essek says. “That was a long time ago for me.” Does he sound normal? He has no idea. He is a fool. 

He watches Caleb’s face change slowly, as the human registers something of Essek’s change in demeanor. “Essek,” Caleb says.

“I’m fine,” Essek says, and smiles weakly at him. “How did you burn it?”

“Ah,” Caleb says, and he folds his arms around his chest, curling further inward, slightly. “I don’t remember exactly, but- you know I was once trained to be a Vollstrecker.”

“A Scourger,” Essek says. “Yes.” 

“Bad things happened then,” Caleb says. “Happened to me. And I happened to other people. I don’t know which one this was. It still serves as a reminder, though.” 

“Perhaps that is what I need,” Essek says. “A physical reminder. Of my sins.” 

Caleb shifts. Pushes himself up, back against the wood-panelled wall. He reaches out, takes Essek’s hand. Essek lets him. Caleb’s touch, though impossibly gentle, is too much, as always. Essek keeps waiting for the moment when the warmth of Caleb’s skin no longer makes his body try to shake and so far the moment has not arrived. Caleb’s thumb strokes along the heartline dividing Essek’s palm and Essek’s breath escapes him in a hiss. “No,” Caleb says. 

Essek has no response. All he can think about is how much it will hurt, when this is over. 

“My final act at the end of that path involved fire,” Caleb says. “I assume that’s when I got this scar. Difficult to say. My memory has holes in it.”

You do not know the half of it, Essek thinks, and fights down hysterical laughter. 

Caleb is still looking at him, still holding his hand- trying to impart something to him with this story, Essek thinks, hoping for something to come of it. And as always, Essek must disappoint him, because after a while he sighs, and lets go of Essek’s hand, instead reaching out to brush a lock of hair out of Essek’s face. 

“Do you miss them?” Essek says. “Your friend, with the birthmark.” What does his voice sound like, right now?

“Oh, yes,” Caleb says. “But I am very happy I did not go down her path.” 

“So am I,” Essek says, which is an easy enough truth, and it must be close to what Caleb is looking for, because he smiles and leans down to kiss Essek, very sweetly, as though they have all the time in the world.

When Caleb is asleep again, Essek soundlessly levitates himself up off the bed, and glides to the open doorway without making a noise. Out on the balcony a warm breeze is drifting through the luminescent spires of Rosohna. Essek leans over the ornate railing and cries until his stomach aches, muffling himself against the sleeve of his nightrobe. 

He tries to tell himself what he is upset about is how he has been played for a fool. He is upset by the final undeniable evidence that Ludinus and Trent never respected him in the slightest, that they have in all likelihood been laughing behind their hands at young, foolish Essek for the past three decades. 

He doesn’t do a good job of convincing himself. 

Which is better, he wonders? Loving someone for a tiny fragment of time- fifty years at a generous estimate- and then losing them forever? Or loving someone for that brief span, losing them, then seeing them return as someone much older than you, who loves a person who is not you so much they wanted that love carved onto their soul? 

Fifty years could be a terribly generous overestimation. He is certain Caleb will want to pursue any possible avenue for recovering the memories his onetime master must have magically suppressed. Essek would want to, after all, if it were him. And they are so very alike, he and this Caleb who is only a fragment of a larger self. 

He cannot imagine a larger whole that could be more intricate or more valuable than the man he knows. 

Essek has never felt more hate in his heart for the Luxon than he does in this moment. 

He can’t seem to stop turning the terrible puzzle over in his mind. Who was Caleb, before his soul was stolen and reborn in some tiny human village? Was his rare, hesitant laugh the same a hundred years ago, when his ears were pointed and his face smooth? Did he still love cats?

Essek has never heard of an amanuensis occurring in adulthood. He has no idea what cocktail of memory spells Trent must have cast on that young brilliant student, but he knows all too well how difficult such spells are to reverse, how high the risks are of permanent side effects. And he knows the secrets he is not supposed to even dream of. The instability that plagues the oldest Umavis. 

Anything could happen to Caleb, if his memories returned. 

Essek truly has no idea how much of these thoughts are simply selfish rationalizations. 

He drifts back into the room. Caleb has shifted in his sleep. He is relaxed now, somewhat uncurled, and Essek soon sees that this is perhaps due to the ginger cat now softly snoring on his chest. 

Very foolish to be jealous of a cat that is not even truly a cat, but as has already been thoroughly established, Essek is a fool, and he dearly wishes he could bring such uncomplicated comfort with only his presence. 

Essek sits on the bed, watching Caleb’s chest rise and fall, and plots the best way to get his hands on the Assembly's secret research.

Or failing that, another beacon. 

He is very familiar with the burning desire for knowledge, but this desperation is new.

He watches Caleb as the sky outside lightens from midnight to the thinner darkness of day. _I will tell him,_ he thinks. _When he wakes I will tell him._


End file.
